


Surf on the Sand

by historia_vitae_magistras



Series: The tulips make me want... [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 03:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historia_vitae_magistras/pseuds/historia_vitae_magistras
Summary: Some Pot and Porn circa 1967.





	Surf on the Sand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paarsetulpen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paarsetulpen/gifts).



 

TW: Pot smoking and sex.

Matt rolls over in sweaty sheets and lights up as the clink and clatter of his pilfered zippo and glassware sounds from the other side of the bed. He squints over, still too sticky and spent to fuck about with his glasses. Paisley patterned glassware bubbling and as elaborate as any of either of their Queen’s vases sit heavily in Johan’s hands as he sags into the pillows. A moment later he’s turning over onto Matt again, belly to belly. The sun streams in through the green glass beads, dropping down on them and the tulips in the window sill, all Matt can see without help.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re so high.”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t pretty.”

“I’m not a woman,”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t pretty. God bless the fucking hippies, finally bringing around a decent hairstyle for you.” He pinches a spiral of curl and pushes it out of Matt’s face. His pupils are blown and they both reek but Matt isn’t far behind and it’s welcome, a sensation of nothing but hands and him. His Johan. But he’s still a little annoyed at the implication of ‘pretty.’

“I need a haircut.” And maybe he will buzz it all off again. Just to spite him. But spiting Johan is pleasing his father. Pleasing Alfred. Maybe he’ll grow it all the way out and they can keep the pot in the tower and climb his hair up— Matt stops his rambling thoughts.

“Fuck I’m high.” And oh yeah, he’s a goner. “I need coffee.” Like coffee helps the high the same way it does the beer.

“Nah, you need to roll over.”

“Oh do I now?” He says because he isn’t so high that he’s lost the meaning of that particular sentence.

“Yeah, you do,” Johan says and the sound feels like warm water down the back of his neck. Matt closes his eyes. The world is moving too fast, a ferris wheel off its track and flying like a windmill in a hurricane and this way he can slow it down, hear the rasp of their unshaven cheeks as Johan’s moves down following his hands down and behind, gripping ass and hips to turn him over, careful of the bruises from where’d they fucked in the Volkswagon that morning because as usual, it was Matt’s ass on the hood.

When they’re together like this, it’s hardly sex, more like lazing in a dingy in the sun, taken by the current or the captain now thumping into him like the slap of the surf on the sand. He basks in it, the slow build up, the waves crashing down faster and faster until Johan’s hands move from Matt’s back where Matt supports both their weight and down and around the crux of his legs. And it’s not white hot and quick like it is when he’s sober. More like a slow push of pleasure up the length of his body that collects and pools and overflows. They sag back into the bed and lay there, in a haze, dozing or just totally stoned he doesn’t really know.

“Fuck— that was good,” Johan says eventually.

Matt cracks open an eye. “Yeah, it was nice. But you know what would be better?”

“What’s that?”

“A sandwich.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> And as always: I'm on Tumblr here: https://historia-vitae-magistras.tumblr.com/
> 
> I post history and Hetalia and aesthetics.
> 
> Kudos, comments and critiques are life. Thank you for reading!


End file.
